Let Them Eat Cake
by Mjulinir
Summary: The reason Feuilly was refused the opportunity to host his own cooking show. No, not really. *Actually* this is the tale of what happens when Louison allows Les Amis to take over the kitchen for a day.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well, this is the first chapter of my second fan fiction, which I started yesterday. I thought I'd just pop it up and see what you guys think. It's fairly different from the Risk deal; I tried to make it a bit more true to the period and the style's more serious (though it's still supposed to be a comedy). I tried hard to keep them in character, but, as I haven't really had much practice, I'm not sure if I succeeded.

Although I don't find this chapter as amusing as the second one (which I've written about half of), I figured I might as well get it out of the way.

Courfeyrac was ready to move in for the kill. For almost half an hour he'd been lounging across the street from a café, making eyes at a fetching brunette who sat at a well-shaded table, taking dainty sips from a glass of wine. Every so often, she would glance at him coyly, sometimes twisting a glossy lock of hair around her finger and making a pouting grimace, as if she were uncertain whether to accept the young man's advances.

At last, however, her eyes had lingered on him for several moments longer than usual and he had taken this for an invitation, confidence swelling in his breast as he started foreword. Mentally, he reviewed the strategy that he had devised upon first seeing the girl, hastily pieced together with the ease of practice. Attract notice. Check. Provoke interest. Check. Move in, perhaps with a charming bow and a flourish of the hat. His fingers twitched slightly as if the silken brim were already held between them. Hit her with one of his tried and true original pickup lines, or perhaps a line of Jehan's poetry, pilfered for just such an occasion. He couldn't help but smile as he continued forward, as always, delighted by the prospect of a new catch.

With only a few more steps to go before reaching his target, Courfeyrac absently stepped around a pedestrian and was surprised and mildly annoyed when the man moved back into his way. "Excuse me," he said testily, reaching out to shove the stranger aside.

"Did you get the eggs?" The man asked by way of a reply, his voice tinged with impatience.

"Eggs?" His eyes were still locked on the woman, as if he hoped that ignoring the newcomer would make him go away.

"Yes, eggs! I sent you to get eggs, remember?" Combeferre moved to block Courfeyrac's line of vision, making the girl disappear from his sight in a puff of pink lace. "Have you been here this whole time?"

Craning unsuccessfully for a view of his quarry, Courfeyrac was forced to admit defeat. With a sulky glare that would not have looked out of place on a much younger individual, he fought to keep a plaintive tone from voice. "I just stopped for a few minutes to look around. Surely that's no crime."

"Courfey," Combeferre said levelly, refusing to succumb to his own exasperation. "You've hardly even traveled three blocks. How can you call that 'a few minutes'?"

Unable to come up with a witty reply, Courfeyrac was forced to employ a retort that sounded lame even to himself. "I became distracted."

"Yes, I gathered." With a tug of the arm, Combeferre set his companion in motion, half-dragging him in the direction of the fresh market. "Do you realize that I had to leave Feuilly to look after the oven by himself? _Feuilly_! We'll be lucky if the Musain is still standing by the time we get back."

At this, Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, clearly unsettled by the idea of leaving the little fan-maker alone with a heated kitchen implement. "Why didn't you just send him instead?" He inquired, plucking his sleeve from between Combeferre's fingers and fastidiously smoothing the fabric.

"Because you wouldn't have listened to him," was the reply, leaving Courfeyrac to wonder if perhaps Combeferre knew him a bit too well. "Besides, some famous fan-maker is displaying his wares today in the Tuileries, and Feuilly's been begging me to let him go. I was afraid that if I let him out the door we might not see him again."

"Good call," Courfeyrac remarked as they turned onto the Rue Saint-Jacques and began to stroll down its length, each step bringing them closer to the Place Maubert and the little cart of freshly laid eggs that waited there.

A/N: Coming soon: Chapter Two starring Feuilly and Bahorel…In a kitchen…Oh, dear.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hooray for the next chapter. Thank you to Bramblefox, BregoArodShadowfax, and Enjy-Glomper for the kind reviews. They're actually part of the only reason why I decided to continue with this after running into a horrid case of writer's block. Thank you also to everybody who checked the first chapter out, I hoped you liked it.

This is my favorite chapter so far and it was really fun to write. The recipe I'm using is one that I found on a website called . Sorry this chapter took so long, my internet was down for a couple of days and my computer's being kind of funky. Hope you like it! I'd really love some feedback.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the Musain, Feuilly was valiantly struggling to make sense of the carefully printed note that Louison had left for the group.

"'One cupful of boiling water and half a cupful of butter in a large saucepan,'" he read aloud. Turning to the assortment of pots and pans that littered the table, he furrowed his brow and chose a likely looking candidate. "This looks sort of saucepannish, I suppose." After squinting at it for a moment, he banged it down on the scarred wooden counter and turned back to the scullery-maid's loopy handwriting. "'Turn in one pint of flour'. 'Turn in'? I wonder what that means," he mused, scratching his head with the heel of his palm.

"It means add it in, you lackwit." Bahorel came striding in; a small sack of flour cradled under one arm. He gently tossed the cargo onto the counter and moved to stand beside Feuilly, reading over his shoulder. "Have you boiled the water yet?" At the other man's blank stare, he grumbled and looked around for the water bucket. "What am I saying? Of course, you haven't."

With the swift, assured ease of practice, the big man dipped water into the tin measuring cup and dashed it into the same saucepan that Feuilly had set out, making sure that not a single drop escaped. "Have you at least been keeping the fire going?" He briefly glanced at the smaller man, who was regarding him with a mutinous scowl.

"Of course I have!" Feuilly replied indignantly. "What do you take me for?"

"Well certainly, not a baker," Bahorel teased, giving him a good-natured cuff as he passed by on his way to the fireplace. Carefully, he set the saucepan on the shelf above the fire before prodding at the logs with one booted toe. "Who on earth laid this fire?"

"It was already going when I got here," Feuilly said absently as he tried in vain to cram a stick of butter into the measuring cup.

Glancing up, Bahorel was hard-pressed to hide a smile as he watched his friend become increasingly frustrated. "Why don't you try cutting it up?"

"I was getting to that," Feuilly retorted, a lopsided grin ghosting across his narrow face.

After a few impatient minutes the water began to bubble and Feuilly tipped the butter into the pan, under Bahorel's watchful gaze.

Once the concoction had boiled up, Bahorel instructed his comrade to turn in the flour. "Now," he directed, his eyes skimming over Louison's note. "'Beat with a vegetable masher until smooth and velvety to the touch.'"

"Beat?" Feuilly repeated, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "That sounds more like your domain."

"So it does," With a grin, Bahorel set to work, wielding the masher as if it were a weapon.

"Just who I wanted to find alone in a kitchen: an artist and a maniac." Laigle, bald and grinning, appeared in the doorway, bearing a basket of ingredients.

Bahorel paused in his mixing and rewarded him with the most manic grin he could muster. Beside him, Feuilly glanced up and smiled slightly. "Where's your other half?"

Bossuet chuckled good-naturedly, used to such wisecracks. After setting his basket down on the counter, he gestured towards the doorway behind him. "He's coming. Wanted to stop and check his tongue in the window."

Right on cue, Joly's reedy voice piped up from the hallway. "We have the things you asked—"He paused mid-sentence as his destination came into view, blinking at the near-empty kitchen. "Where's 'Ferre?"

"He went to go find Courfeyrac," responded Bahorel, whom Feuilly had filled in on the morning's events.

Laigle greeted this with a laugh. "What, did he get lost?"

"Something like that." Bahorel grinned, sharing in the bald man's mirth.

"He's taken over an hour on a twenty minute walk," Feuilly added dryly. "Combeferre decided to go and see what was keeping him."

"Typical," Joly sighed as he unpacked the basket and tucked several perishables into the ice-chest. "He's easily the most distractible fellow I've ever come across."

"Besides yourself, you mean?" That was Laigle, trying to hide a smile as he bent over the recipe.

"Why do you say these things you know will hurt me?" Joly shot back absently, already absorbed in checking the ice-box for expirations.

Bossuet sniggered quietly and went to check on Bahorel's progress. "Courfey had better hurry up with those eggs," he remarked. "We're going to need them very, very shortly."

The other man's grunt of agreement was drowned out by a loud crash, originating in the direction of the café proper. All four of the young men started and glanced at each other, Bahorel still vigorously stirring. "Well," Laigle remarked, voicing the conclusion at which they had unanimously arrived. "Either Louison has been concealing an elephant behind the bar or Grantaire has decided to join us."

* * *

A/N: Next on Let Them Eat Cake…Will Courfeyrac bring the eggs in time? Will Joly be able to overcome his fear of salmonella? Will Grantaire be any help whatsoever? Tune in next time for the exciting new chapter of: Let Them Eat Cake.


	3. Chapter 3

"Someone had best go see what he's up to," Joly prompted, following several moments of silence.

There was a sudden, brief flurry of activity as both Laigle and Feuilly dove to make themselves look busy.

"Oh, come on!" Joly snapped at Bossuet, who was cradling an empty mixing bowl and avidly banging around inside of it with a wooden spoon. "You're all completely overreacting."

"So, why don't _you_ go?" Feuilly demanded as he industriously shoveled cups of flour into a second saucepan.

"Well, I'd like to," Joly began earnestly. "But I'm feeling a bit lightheaded and I think it would be best if I avoided doing anything strenuous for a while. You know, just in case."

"What's so strenuous about walking into the other room?" Bahorel inquired with a wicked grin.

The medical student scowled in reply, apparently unable to come up with a better argument. "Fine, I'll go," he huffed. "But if I die of heat stroke or—or orthostatic hypertension, know that I will blame _you_."

"Duly noted," Laigle said cheerfully, offering his friend a jaunty wave, spoon still in hand.

Without another word, Joly took his leave, shuffling through the room where the group normally met, and beginning the long trek down the passage that led to the café's front room.

The sight that greeted him as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the deserted common area was hardly the scene of pandemonium that he had anticipated. The chairs were stacked upside down at each of the tables—as they always were when the café was closed, and the bar appeared to be undisturbed, a small army of bottles lined up on the shelves with military precision. And yet…

Carefully, Joly approached the bar, edging around the counter as if he expected a bear to pop out from behind it. A rasping snore made him jump slightly and he clutched at his heart, feeling decidedly silly as he caught sight of the man slumped against the wall. A huge pewter tray lay mournfully at his feet, a large dent proclaiming the abuse to which it had been subjected. "Grantaire," Joly hissed, moving closer to prod at the sleeper with his foot. "Grantaire, get up."

After several more attempts, the drunkard's eyelids fluttered and he raised his head, allowing it to loll back on his neck. "You know," he slurred in his rough voice as he peered at his comrade with bloodshot eyes. "They say drinking makes everybody appear more attractive, but you're just as pale and scrawny as ever."

The corner of Joly's mouth twitched and he rolled his eyes heavenward. "Get up," he demanded wearily, taking hold of the other man's elbow and attempting to haul him to his feet.

Grantaire complied, using the counter to steady himself. Pulling his arm from Joly's grasp, he drowsily scrubbed a hand over his face, a noise like sandpaper issuing from the thick stubble coating his jaw. "Where is everybody?"

"They're in the kitchen." Joly grimaced at the rasping noise, his teeth set on edge. "Do you _have_ to do that?"

"Forgive me; at times I forget what a delicate flower you are." With a toothy grin, Grantaire brushed past his friend and teetered towards the door Joly had come through.

Seized with sudden panic at the thought of Grantaire lurching about the kitchen, Joly hurried to catch him. "Wait! Maybe it's best if you stay here."

The other swung to face him, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Why's that?"

"Because you're drunk," Joly replied bluntly. "Though I can't imagine how, at this hour."

"So I am," Grantaire mused, scratching his bristly chin. "And why not? What's the use of being sober in such a detestable setting? Eh?" With a hearty guffaw, he slapped his companion on the shoulder, making the latter wince.

"So, uh, why don't you stay out of the kitchen for now?" Joly coaxed, attempting to steer the inebriate away from the doorway and towards a nearby table.

For a moment, it seemed as if Grantaire would relent and allow himself to be deterred. Suddenly, however, his eyes lit up, as though the haze of wine had suddenly lifted from his mind, allowing him a glimpse into the workings of the universe. With a sly smile, he turned on his friend, holding up a hand to silence the other man's muddled protests. "Ah, ah! Speak not another word! I understand completely. You," he leaned in, gravely intoning with the air of a co-conspirator. "Don't think I can cook."

"What?" Joly felt his head reel, though whether it was from the unexpected accusation or the alcoholic reek of Grantaire's breath, he couldn't quite be sure. Pulling away, he stuttered. "Wait, No! That's not it at all!"

"No, don't try to deny it!" The drunk waved aside the smaller man's words as if they were dust motes. "I can see it plastered all over that pasty face of yours! Well, let me tell you, _monsieur_: Hestia, herself, could not have produced a finer ambrosia than I! I could whip up a _soufflé_ that would make La Varenne gape with wonder; a veritable orgy of the senses, if you will!"

"No, really, you've got it all wrong!" But Joly's feeble attempts to halt the tide of words were drowned out by Grantaire's steadily rising voice as he hurled himself into one of his familiar rants. At a loss, the medical student fled the room, quite unnoticed by his friend, whose slurred proclamations followed him down the hallway, echoing uncannily.

"Let Jean Avice tremble in fear lest I stride into his kitchen and laugh at his talentless concoctions!"

At last, Joly stumbled to the doorway of the kitchen, thoroughly out of breath and more than ready to return to the company of his more understanding acquaintances. Raising his eyes to survey his friends' progress, he felt a gasp tear from his chest, sudden panic threatening to envelop him. In a moment, he had taken in the broken eggshells neatly piled on the countertop, Courfeyrac, leaning proudly against the door to the stairwell, and finally, the laden spoon poised at Feuilly's lips.

"Stop!" He cried with all the strength of his oft-treacherous lungs, hurling himself forward to knock the spoon from the fan-maker's trembling hand. "Nobody move!"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry, I lied about the Baketrix. I've never actually even seen the trilogy, so I probably wouldn't be able to write a proper spoof anyways. However, this chapter does have a spoon in slo-mo, so that will have to do.

I think we're probably about halfway through by now. So Hooray! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, it got the most reviews so far, and I'm very grateful for all of the nice comments!

This is one of my least favorite chapters, though I'm not sure why. I guess it was kind of rushed. Also, it's about 80 percent dialog, so get ready. Hope you like it!

I promise the next chapter will be better.

* * *

"Stop! Nobody move!"

Joly's shout filled the kitchen with the force of an explosion, taking its other inhabitants by complete surprise.

Five pairs of eyes remained locked on the spoon as it arced through the air, the world seeming to slow for a moment before it landed at Laigle's feet with a deafening clatter. The sound seemed to somehow break a spell that hung over the five men, and each of them began to speak at once.

"Have you gone mad?" Feuilly demanded, staring at his friend as if he were a raving lunatic. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"My only pair of shoes," Laigle was lamenting to whomever was listening. "Cost me three weeks of pocket money. Three weeks!"

"You don't understand!" Joly raved, doing little to alleviate Feuilly's fears. "You could have died!"

"They look to me as if they cost you about four sous," Courfeyrac commented unsympathetically to Laigle.

"Well, of course, _now_ they do!" Laigle retorted, gazing mournfully down at where the footwear in question had been sprayed with batter.

"I hardly," Feuilly began, completely ignoring the conversation going on a few feet away. "Think that sampling éclair filling is a matter of life and death."

"But it is!" Joly insisted. "You haven't cooked the eggs!"

"The recipe didn't say we needed to."

"You should never eat uncooked eggs! They've got all sorts of dreadful diseases. Do you want to die?"

"Here we go, again," Bahorel muttered under his breath, busily cutting excess pastry from around the edges of three pie plates. Louison, the scullery maid, had worked late the night before to make them puff pastry, and they had found it neatly tucked into the ice-chest.

"I refuse to be afraid of an egg," Feuilly declared, anchoring his hands on his hips in a display of willfulness.

"My grandmother used to eat raw eggs." That was Courfeyrac, apparently having tired of Laigle and determined, as always, to volunteer something to the conversation. "Thought they made her bones stronger."

"Did they?" Bahorel ventured, ignoring Joly's horrified expression.

"Not enough," this with a grin that would have made any girl flush from head to toe.

Offended at the lightheartedness with which his warnings had been received, Joly sulkily withdrew to a corner, seating himself on a stool that someone had left there. "Go ahead and scoff. Just don't come crying to me when you're dying from a bacterium-induced infection."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bahorel said with a wink. "I'll keep my bacterium-induced infections all to myself." Courfeyrac simply laughed.

"He's just trying to look out for you, you know." Laigle was crouched on the floor, trying fruitlessly to remove the large stains from his shoes by scrubbing at them with a dishtowel.

"Yes, we know," Courfeyrac acknowledged, his face suddenly solemn despite the twinkling of his eyes. "And we're really very grateful," He directed towards the sullen figure in the corner. "I can't even begin to imagine what I've saved on doctor's bills since I met you, Jolly."

"Oh, stop," Feuilly admonished absently, almost completely absorbed in the recipe's curves and loops. After a moment, he glanced up at Bahorel, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "What's a pastry bag and what do they mean by 'tube'?"

"Let me see it." Bahorel moved to stand beside the fan-maker, his eyes darting back and forth across the carefully printed lines. "Well, first you're going to have to spread this stuff on these plates over here, like this." He demonstrated, using the back of a spoon to thinly spread the mixture they had made over one of the pastry-covered pie plates. "You finish with this and I'll get the pastry bag."

Eagerly, Feuilly took the spoon and set to work, closely watched by Courfeyrac, who had never so much as poached an egg.

"By the way," Joly spoke up, unexpectedly breaking his silence. "Where's Combeferre? I thought he was with Courfey."

"He was," Courfeyrac replied. "But he told me he had some errands to do before he was ready to come back here. He was all very mysterious and such, but I figure he went to go see how Jehan's getting along."

"Ah, Provaire's special assignment." Laigle grinned. "Can't say I envy him any."

"Do you suppose he suspects?" Feuilly asked.

"Who? Oh, _him_? Don't see how he would. I doubt it's something he would ever consider, himself. I'd be surprised if he's ever baked anything in his life."

"Who among us _has_?" Courfeyrac interjected dryly. Bahorel was the only one to raise his hand, prompting Laigle to throw the dishtowel at him. The large man sidestepped neatly and came to a halt besides Feuilly.

"Now see here, this is a pastry bag. We're going to fit the tube in, like so, and—Here, give me that mixing bowl, would you? Thanks. All right, so we're going to scoop all of this excess filling into the bag--"

"Step right up to see the world's most militant baker," Courfeyrac joked. "Uses real gunpowder in place of flour! Get your tickets now."

"Proceeds go towards getting me a new pair of shoes," Laigle chimed in.

"Sure, why not? Baked goods available after the show."

"Why don't you two clowns do something useful and start making the cream?" Bahorel said gruffly.

"I'd love to," Courfeyrac replied in mock earnest. "We haven't had any good explosions all day."

* * *

A/N: To Be Continued in the EXCITING Next Issue: The Return of Grantaire (and if that doesn't scare you, I don't know what will)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Finally finished it. My computer's been pretty wacky lately (The entire bottom half of the screen is totally white), so it's been hard to open my files. Thankfully, I've ordered a new computer, which should be coming in a few days. I've also been getting ready to go to college, so I'm not writing nearly as often. Don't worry, though, I have no intention of abandoning the story (which is something, considering that it's me talking). Anyways, I promised you a better chapter last time, so I hope that this delivers. Thanks for all the reviews from last time and for staying with me through the story! I really appreciate it!

Anyway, hope you like it!

**A/N UPDATE:** I've been having some trouble getting into the right mindset to finish this and I'm really, really sorry for leaving the story hanging for so long. Especially without warning. I'd nearly forgotten about it when I came across it again in my files, so I'm planning on taking it up again in the near future!

Combeferre was exhausted. For the better part of the morning and into the afternoon, he had been trying to track down Jean Provaire, scurrying to near half a dozen predesignated meeting spots before finally locating the poet in a public garden. After skulking unnoticed behind a two-day-old newspaper, Combeferre was able to conclude that Jehan was doing his job admirably, keeping his normally impatient companion relatively toned-down. Silently congratulating Provaire on a job well-done, the weary law student began the trek back to the Musain, pleased that at least one part of the plan was going smoothly.

As he mounted the outdoor steps leading to the kitchen, Combeferre was able to make out voices within, engaged in the usual banter. It sounded like a small army was housed inside the room and he paused a moment, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of noise that waited to assail him. Gathering his resolve, he laid his hand on the door handle and let himself in.

Immediately, he was struck by the disconcerting impression that the room contained dozens of people. A wave of heat hit him full in the face and he held up a hand to block it. The air around the oven was shimmering slightly, a testament to its elevated temperature.

Several of his friends had turned at the sound of his entrance; he noticed that both Bahorel and Joly looked relieved to see him. "Well, how is he?" Bahorel inquired.

Though the question was vague, Combeferre did not need him to elaborate. "He's doing well," He said, moving further into the kitchen, the door shutting firmly behind him. "Everything is under control. How are you all getting along?"

"It's in the oven. All we need to do is wait for it to bake and then assemble it. Oh, and make the cream; but Bossuet and Courfey are handling that." He glanced across the room at the two, who were crowded conspiratorially around a pan, discarded ingredients surrounding them. Satisfied that they were actually working, Bahorel turned his attention towards the fireplace, where a figure was bent over a saucepan, staring at it as if he expected it to suddenly start tap-dancing. "How's that syrup coming, Feuilly?"

"It's coming," Feuilly assured him.

Bahorel nodded and leaned over to check how the pie plates were getting along. What he found made him slightly uneasy and he checked over the recipe for what felt like the thousandth time. "The pastry's not rising," He said grimly, his voice loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear.

"You were expecting it to levitate?" came a call from the direction of Laigle and Courfeyrac. Bahorel ignored it, instead focusing his attention on Combeferre.

Realizing that he was expected to respond, Combeferre leaned down to look in the oven, nearly getting the breath knocked out of him by a wave of heat. "Well, what do we do about it?"

The other man shrugged and ran a hand through his ruddy hair in an anxious gesture. "Just wait it out, I guess. It might start rising towards the end."

"Ho! Bahorel!" Laigle called out, wresting the large man's attention from the dilemma at hand. "Where did we put the vanilla flavoring?"

"Ah, I brought it with me." Combeferre fished a small bottle out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. "Can't have a vanilla cake without the vanilla."

"I thought we were doing a rum cake." The new voice was coarse and grating, almost as though rust had begun to set in. Grantaire had appeared in the doorway and was looking at Combeferre as if the other had slaughtered his puppy before his eyes.

"No, Grantaire," Combeferre replied, with the air of a man who has explained things more than twice. "It has to be something that we _all _can enjoy. We all agreed that it should be vanilla."

"_I_ didn't," Grantaire growled.

"That's because _you_ were passed out on the table." Despite the patience Combeferre managed to instill in his voice, it was plain that the day's events were starting to wear on him.

The drunkard glowered, his face darkening like a storm cloud. He opened his mouth to protest, but Joly quickly interceded. "Why don't you just pour rum on your piece, R? That would be a lot easier, wouldn't it? And you can have as much flavoring as you want that way."

Grantaire's eyes became thoughtful and after a moment he nodded slowly. "All right, that works for me. Though this pastry had better be a heavenly confection if you expect Apollo to like it."

"We'll keep that in mind," Laigle said cheerfully as he ignored the recipe completely and emptied the entire bottle of vanilla into the mixing bowl. Courfeyrac gave him an odd look, but held his peace, grabbing a spoon and beginning to stir the concoction.

"Has it been twenty-five minutes yet?" Feilly piped up, apparently having grown tired of saucepan duty.

"About," Joly replied, checking his pocket-watch.

"Don't let it boil!" Bahorel warned simultaneously. "We'll have to start all over."

"Cream's ready!" Courfeyrac chirped, licking a glob of it off of his finger.

"Good, set it aside and come help me get these pastry balls out of the oven. And for God's sake, stop eating the cream!"

A few minutes later, thirty-five balls of baked éclair filling were cooling on the counter, Courfeyrac was being scolded for having eaten one, and Laigle was nursing four burned fingers. "So now what?" asked Joly as he inspected the injury.

"Now we wait for these confounded plates of puff pastry to finish baking," Bahorel answered, his tone indicating that the pastry was still refusing to rise.

"Well, how long should that take?"

"They should be done right about now." He tested one plate with a fork before pulling it out with a cloth-wrapped hand and setting it on the counter. "'Ferre, could you get the other two?"

Combeferre did so, gingerly reaching into the hot oven and pulling them out one at a time. Bahorel consulted the recipe. "Now, we need to 'dip the balls in syrup and place them around the border of the pastry about two inches apart'. Feuilly, bring the syrup over here and start dipping. No, not with your fingers, pick them up with a fork."

Grantaire stood in the doorway and observed his fellows, his enthusiasm over culinary matters long since forgotten. "This cake is going to look ridiculous," he commented, watching as Feuilly began his task.

" I think it looks rather manly." Courfeyrac countered, a large grin plastered over his face. "Reminds me of myself."

"You mean you're both full of hot air?" Joly glanced up from bandaging Laigle's fingers.

"You wound me," Courfeyrac said, feigning hurt. "And here I thought our friendship meant something to you."

"Don't be too offended," The medical student replied. "I save you money on doctor's bills, after all."

Feuilly snickered, but Courfeyrac only gave a small smile. "Touché."

A/N: Next Time On Let Them Eat Cake: There's trouble on the ranch and Feuilly may be the only one able to stop it. But with the annual Cow Roping Competition just around the corner, will he be able to do it in time? Or will Jean Provaire's lifelong dream of becoming the King of Cows be shattered by the inevitable? And what about the mysterious black stallion who's taken up residence in Courfeyrac's living room?


End file.
